


Whumptober 2019: The Alternates (Supernatural)

by SylvanFreckles



Series: Whumptober 2019 [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caring Dean Winchester, Caring Sam Winchester, Castiel Whump (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Hates Witches, Dean Winchester is Claustrophobic, Gen, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mary is Not Mother of the Year, Sick Sam Winchester, Whump, Whumptober 2019 Alternates, Why Hasn't Someone Smited Naomi Like I Asked, friggin witches man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:18:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22070137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanFreckles/pseuds/SylvanFreckles
Summary: Welcome to the Super Secret Project (TM)!I was picking around the internet one day, looking for the 2018 prompts because I thought it might be fun to tackle those, when lo and behold I find the alternate 2019 prompts! Sixteen alternate or expanded takes on the originals, plus a bonus alternate version of the original Day 31 (no character death this time).Chapter Three: Fever (Delirium - alternate) - Tensions rise and tempers flare when Sam is struck down with an illness.
Relationships: Anael (Supernatural: Devil's Bargain) & Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel & Dean Winchester & Mary Winchester & Sam Winchester, Castiel & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Mary Winchester, Mary Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Whumptober 2019 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1550827
Comments: 17
Kudos: 52





	1. "Wake Up" (Secret Injury - Alternate)

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I still owe RobinTheSpotlight and Cocoa_Caramel_Macchiato_Latte their commission fics, but I needed something easy to work on during the current craziness, and this is already planned out. It won't be updated as frequently as Whumptober, but that also means the chapters will be longer, more detailed, and have more whump.
> 
> Just to clarify: I took the sixteen alternate Whumptober prompts and paired each with an existing chapter, to make an extended or alternate version (this chapter, for instance, is an alternate version of Naomi's treatment of Cas for the "Secret Injuries" prompt, while the next is more of what happened after the "Muffled Scream" chapter). Each chapter will be marked whether it's an alternate or extended version.

“Wake up!”

The slap brought him around more than the words did. Castiel blinked against the ringing pain in his head and tried to press a hand against it, an all-too-human reaction. But his arms wouldn't move.

“Dammit, I said wake up!”

Another blow, this one hard enough to bruise his chin. He flinched away from the shadows of movement he saw, anticipating another blow, and the shape above him moved away.

The world around him was white and featureless, lit from some otherworldly source invisible to the naked eye. An angel, though...an angel could see the wisps and fragments of celestial energy swirling through the walls and ceiling to provide light and power.

He was in Heaven.

“He's taking too long to wake up. You must have hit him too hard,” a woman complained. With rising panic, he realized it was Naomi.

“My apologies.” He didn't fully recognize the second voice—Jeremiah? Anapiel? “He struggled harder than we anticipated.”

“This spell only works when the target is conscious,” Naomi continued as she returned to stand over him. Castiel could see, now. He was back in her office, strapped into the chair, motionless and at her mercy. “When I said we needed every angel, Castiel, I meant it,” she said, leaning closer to him. Her hand caressed his hair in an almost gentle manner, though he tried to flinch away from her.

“Don't be a child,” Naomi spat. “We're only in this predicament because of you, the least you could do is work with us.”

“Naomi?” the other angel—he could see, now, it was Jeremiah—was holding out a tray of instruments. Light gleamed off celestial alloy, and though he wanted to turn away Castiel couldn't help but stare at the array of hooks and pins and scalpels Jeremiah was presenting.

“Excellent,” Naomi clapped her hands brusquely and started rolling her sleeves back, “There are ways around keeping an angel in heaven,” she explained to Castiel. He tried to follow her movements, but she walked behind the chair and the spellwork in the frame was keeping him immobile. “Metatron's methods were barbaric compared to mine. He would have bled countless angels dry, while I can take what I need without stripping you of your true form.”

Dread filled his heart, and Castiel fought to throw off the spells binding him, even if just to protest. From behind, Naomi rested one hand on his head and when he strained his eyes up he could barely see her pitiless gaze. “You brought us to this,” she said. “Remember that.”

Then it was the Word of Command. Heaven had all but forgotten the words etched into the angels' very beings, but Naomi had probed and scraped and dug into every mind until she uncovered spells that surely only the Father himself should have known.

_Manifest._

Castiel tried to scream as flesh and clothing tore to reveal the vast spread of his wings. As unpleasant as the physical manifestation of his wings was, it was so much worse when someone _pulled_ them out. He writhed against his bonds, eyes rolling back in his head as his grace was fractured to bring the ethereal into the physical world.

Naomi tutted behind him. “These are worse than I expected,” she complained to Jeremiah. “Help me pin them, then we can see if there's even anything worth harvesting.”

It was his only chance. The spell wasn't binding his wings, not yet, and Castiel struck out at Naomi and Jeremiah. Someone swore—Naomi, probably—and he felt one wing collide with a solid body hard enough to send the other angel staggering.

“Castiel!” Naomi snarled, and before he could stop her she struck the base of his wings. Two hard blows, in the pressure points where the physical and ethereal met, rendering his wings numb and limp. “Pin them,” she snarled to Jeremiah, and then their hands were on his wings.

He wanted to pull them away, but the moment Naomi slid the first hook around the joint of his left wing to hold it to the frame that unfolded from the chair, he felt the spellwork snap into place. He was completely at their mercy, silent and immobile, as the two angels methodically pinned and hooked his wings until every inch was laid bare for inspection.

“Not much here,” Jeremiah said, almost pityingly, as he moved around to study the wings from the front. Castiel could see him clearly now, though there was nothing remarkable about the other angel's vessel.

“Take what you can,” Naomi replied. She was wheeling in another contraption, something like the IV equipment humans used. “Cut it out if you have to.”

She readied a needle, something as long as her hand and thick as a pencil lead. Castiel tensed and tried to twist away, but Naomi twisted one hand in his hair and yanked his head back. “This will hurt,” she warned, before stabbing the needle into the hollow of his throat.

And, oh, it _hurt_. Worse than Metatron cutting his grace out. Worse than the tortures by his brothers or the phantom memories of reeducation. The needle pierced his flesh into his core, stabbing at the very heart of his essence, to siphon away his grace.

“We're not taking it all,” Naomi explained, moving down to the end of his left wing to investigate the feathers. “What we harvest from you, you can regenerate. Then you will return for us to harvest again.”

“Except the feathers,” Jeremiah added, almost apologetically. His hand brushed tenderly over the twisted and scarred flesh of Castiel's right wing, and for a moment there was the faint warmth of healing on one of the worst patches. “Those will take longer, but we need every piece we can get.”

Jeremiah, at least, was trying to numb the wing as he pulled feathers. Naomi was just tearing them out.

He paused, a hand on Castiel's shoulder, and bent down under the pretense of studying a few bare shafts near the base. “I'm sorry, brother,” he whispered. “She took mine, too.” For a moment there was a hint of shadow, of skeletal limbs stretching out behind Jeremiah, then the other angel seemed cold and hard again as he methodically twisted every burned or broken shaft free.

Castiel closed his eyes, the pain from his mutilated wings twisting deeper and deeper into his body even as the warmth of his grace was pulled away from him. His senses were spiraling into darkness, but before he was pulled under he managed a single call for help.

* * *

“Come on, Castiel, wake up.”

The voice was pleading this time. There was earth under his back and cold wind whipping around his vessel—though whether truly cold or a side effect of his wounded grace he couldn't tell.

“I can see your eyes moving. Just wake up for me.”

Castiel managed to crack an eye open, the worried face above him relaxing into an irritated expression. Human faces were so fascinating, he decided, so able to show different emotions. “Anael.”

“Who else?” she retorted. “You're lucky I showed up, I've been avoiding this place every since Naomi's little homing signal went off.”

He grunted and tried to sit up, accepting her arm behind his back as she eased him against her own shoulder for support. “Thank you.”

Anael shrugged. “You owe me. I mean big, okay? I'm risking my own existence for this. If that bitch knew I was here...”

Castiel let his head sag against her shoulder. His wings were back on the ethereal plane, but they ached from the abuse they'd endured. His grace, what little was left of it, felt like a tiny ember against the great, cold emptiness of his vessel.

He was so _tired_.

“I called your Winchesters,” Anael said after a few minutes of silence. “They're on the way, but we should probably meet them somewhere other than here.”

“Yes, of course,” he leaned away to push himself up, but even his arms refused to hold his weight and he just sprawled in the mud.

Anael snorted as she climbed to her feet, then bent over to sling one of Castiel's arms across her neck and haul him up. Her angelic strength had no problem lifting him to his feet, despite the smallness of her vessel. She tucked herself against his side to support him as they gingerly made their way across the park from the gate of Heaven to Castiel's truck.

“Your Winchesters better hold up their end of the bargain,” she complained as she helped Castiel slide into the passenger seat of his truck. “The only reason I'm even letting myself be seen in this thing is because they promised me a Bentley from your little clubhouse.”

How strange, that the only one of his brothers and sisters he truly felt safe around these days was the one who demanded monetary compensation for her assistance. Castiel let his eyes slide closed as Anael fussed with the settings of the truck—adjusting the radio, mirrors, the angle of the seat, and turning the heat up with the vents pointed at Castiel (a surprisingly kind gesture).

The last thing he knew, as his awareness faded, was Anael tossing her coat over him with a dire warning not to ruin it. Then unconsciousness pulled him under again.

* * *

“Hey, buddy. Think you can wake up for me?”

 _Dean_.

Castiel tried. Exhaustion was heavy on his entire being, muffling even in the pain in his immaterial wings.

“That's it, you're doing great.”

He finally managed to pry his eyes open, the blur of light and color of the waking world slowly resolving itself into Dean's worried face. “Hello, Dean,” he managed to whisper.

Dean's face split with a relieved smile. “Hey, Cas. How are you feeling?”

Castiel groaned. He tried to sit up, but his shoulders seized and he collapsed back down against the seat with a whimper.

“I told you it was bad,” Anael retorted over Dean's shoulder.

“Yeah, thanks,” Dean snapped back. “Come on, can you sit up?” The hunter slid one arm behind Castiel's shoulders and gently pulled him up, leaning the angel forward against the dashboard. It was then that Castiel noticed the thick woolen blanket Dean was carrying, which the hunter tucked around him before letting Castiel lean back in the seat.

“Bunker's still a couple hours away,” Dean warned, one hand on Castiel's knee. “Need anything else?”

He shook his head, tugging the blanket close to his body. The warmth was like a blessing, banishing some of the ache from Naomi's treatment. “Anael?” he managed to ask, stopping the angel in her tracks as she turned to the car Dean had brought as payment. “Again...thank you.”

She shot him a quick smile over one shoulder before climbing into the car—something silver and antique and probably priceless.

“You look like crap,” Dean commented eloquently.

Castiel grunted and tucked himself against the door as soon as it was closed. Dean had climbed behind the wheel, adjusting the heat even higher than Anael had. “Naomi...she...”

“Hey, Anael told me,” Dean silenced him with a hand on his shoulder. “I'm not gonna stop you if you want to talk about it, but I already know.”

Castiel shook his head. No, not now...not yet. Not when he could barely stay conscious.

“Just get some sleep, buddy,” Dean said as he pointed the truck toward Lebanon.

* * *

“Cas? C'mon, Cas, wake up. We're home.”

Waking up was largely the same as the last two times, except that he was almost warm in the woolen blanket Dean had wrapped around him. There were more familiar smells in the air now, of metal and oil and the sharp ozone of warding spells.

“I've got him, Dean.”

And the Winchesters. Castiel found himself blinking up into Sam's sympathetic face as the taller man gently pulled him up and out of the truck. “H-hello, Sam.”

“Hey, Cas,” Sam's voice was warm with his smile, and Castiel let the younger hunter loop one of his arms around his neck and hoist him to his feet, taking most of his weight.

“You get his room ready, Sammy?” Dean asked, taking Castiel's other side so that he was supported between the brothers.

“Blankets came out of the dryer when you pulled in,” Sam replied. Castiel was aware that he was being steered with purpose through the bunker toward the dormitory wing, but that was fine. He was home and safe, and the brothers' actions seemed to promise comfort and care for his recovery.

“Here we go,” Sam murmured, easing the three of them through the doorway. “I've got some thermal pajamas if you want, Cas, or you can just lie down in your clothes.”

Dean snorted. “He's out of it, Sammy. They did a real number on him. Can't even get a full sentence.”

Castiel could almost feel the glare Sam was giving his brother—the one Dean affectionately referred to as the bitch-face. “Let's at least get his shoes and coat.”

“Right.”

They manhandled him onto the side of the bed, and Castiel tried to cooperate as Sam and Dean pried his shoes off and peeled away the outer layers of his clothing. “Sam?” he asked, managing to catch the younger Winchester's wrist.

Sam's smile was gentle. “Yeah, okay,” he said in answer to the angel's unspoken question. “They're Dean's size, so they should fit okay. I had them in the dryer with the blankets.”

The pajamas did fit okay. Like all of Dean's clothing, they were slightly looser in the chest and longer in the leg than Jimmy's suit (or Castiel's suit, as it was now...this body wasn't even Jimmy's anymore, it had been resurrected and restitched together too many times to have a tie to the mortal man who had given up so much). But they were soft and warm, and smelled of _home_ instead of Heaven.

“Here we go,” Dean helped Castiel tuck his legs under the blankets. Sam had dug up a couple of hot water bottles, and those were nestled against Castiel's back and knees to help fight off the chill from his injured Grace. “How's that?”

Castiel nodded, closing his eyes against the dim light of the room. The warmth of the blankets was soothing away the aches in his body from Naomi's abuse—even though he lacked visible injuries, the trauma to his wings and Grace wracked his body with physical pain.

“We'll be right here if you need us, Cas,” Sam whispered, as he set up his laptop on the small desk in the room to boot up Netflix. Dean was already sitting on the floor, back against the bed, complaining about Sam's Netflix queue. They'd angled the laptop so Castiel could see the screen from where he lay curled up beneath the blankets, but sleep was already pulling him under.

Sleep, safety, and the love of his family. It was good to be home.


	2. Broken Voice (Muffled Scream - Extended)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean track down a witch harvesting spell ingredients from a local museum, only for the witch to leave Dean facing one of his only weaknesses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First extended chapter! These are basically the same story but from the perspective of a different character, or with parts of the story extended (like a director's cut). This one is pretty much the same as the Wumptober entry but with the perspectives flipped. The dialogue is the same from the original, but except for one paragraph everything is new.
> 
> I don't like omniscient narration, so even if I don't write from first-person I tend to stick with one character's thoughts and perspective. But hey! That gives us things like this, right?

Sam easily shut the security system back off (1492...really, guys? The exhibit on Columbus was five years ago) as he and Dean slipped into the shadows of the Sadlersville Museum of Natural History.

“Friggin witches,” Dean grumbled, checking his gun for the eighth time since they left the hotel. Someone had been doing some nasty spells in the area and, despite the museum's reputation for counterfeit and exaggerated exhibits, one of Bobby's old contacts had pinpointed it as a possible source of some of the ingredients the witch might be using.

With a sigh of exasperation, Sam hefted his bag a little higher on his shoulder. “All right,” he said, clicking on his flashlight. “Why don't you check the ancient treasures and I'll look at that exhibit of local plant life?”

“Hey,” Dean held his fist up.

Sam just stared at him. No way...his brother wasn't actually suggesting they play _rock-paper-scissors_ to determine who had to look at dozens of identical, probably fake, dried bits of plant and who had to poke around the glass cases full of, also probably fake, ancient treasure? “Do you really want to compare...let's see...thirty-two nearly identical species of ferns against this list Rowena sent me?”

Dean let his fist hang in the air, but Sam shook his head and walked away. It was hard to remember which of them was older sometimes.

He heard Dean call him a bitch behind his back but refused to respond—one of them had to be the mature one, and as usual that was up to Sam. He followed the footprints shaped like round-toed miner's boots to the displays of local plant life—the museum had gone through several exhibit changes, and the hall used to be about the local mining communities. They'd kept some of the original pictures on the walls, though, emphasizing the environmental impact limestone mining had had on Sadlersville and the surrounding towns.

It would have been interesting, if more than half of it hadn't been fake or exaggerated. Peering into the displays, Sam was fairly certain the “trance-inducing herbs grown by Chinese miners” was just marijuana (okay, completely certain, but Dean could never, ever know that Sam knew about pot. He still overreacted if Sam drank hard liquor, and Sam was well into his thirties now).

There. A case labeled “exotic river flora”. Sam knelt next to the case and pulled out the detailed list Rowena had sent him. He shook his head after looking in the case—one of the specimens was a common royal fern that had been spray-painted blue.

It wasn't all a waste, though. He picked the lock on the case and lifted the glass away to get a closer look at the specimens. At least two of them seemed to match Rowena's list, possibly three. These wouldn't be original to the area, but cultivated by witches over the years. Harmless as museum displays, interesting for local history, but a possible source of ingredients for the witch terrorizing Sadlersville.

* * *

The ancient treasures exhibit was as full of bullshit and exaggeration as Dean had hoped. Hell, half their information seemed to come from movies like _300_ and _Gladiator_ and five minutes with Sammy would've disillusioned them to any historical accuracy Hollywood might have portrayed. The entire room was dominated by a sarcophagus in the big display at the end of the hall—Sammy would probably have fifteen reasons why it was fake within a few seconds of looking at it, but Dean just shuddered and kept checking out the cases. He still had nightmares about waking up in that coffin...they were rare, sure, nothing like they used to be, but even so he just couldn't help remembering those first few minutes of panicked thrashing.

Something crunched under his foot, and he took a half-step back to shine his flashlight down. Little bits of dried plant littered the ground, and when he looked back up he realized he was in front of a display on ancient medicinal plants. There was a circle cut out of the glass of the display case—no, wait, not cut. Dean leaned closer and gingerly touched the edge of the glass. It was smooth, like it had been melted through.

Friggin witches.

He was about to turn away to check the rest of the room when something struck him across the side of the head. Not hard enough to knock him out, but enough to make his head ring. He saw another blow coming and dodged, coming face-to-face with a gnarled, reedy-looking old woman with a canopic jar held high in her hands.

“Who disturbs us?” she snarled, jar held high.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean backed away, his fingers finding blood on his temple. “What the hell, lady?”

“You are stealing our birthright!” She looked like a fairytale evil witch, all tangled gray hair and filthy rags and long, disgusting fingernails.

“Hey, I ain't stealing nothing,” Dean countered. “What is this stuff?”

She hissed—actually friggin hissed—and launched herself at him with the jar held high. He knocked the jar away and caught the crazy witch by the wrists when she went for his face. “Sam!”

“He doesn't know.” If anything, the witch's breath was even worse than her appearance. Dean fought back a gag as a fetid odor of rotten meat and rancid fat rolled over him with every word she said. “But we will know.”

“Yeah, great. Damn, you're wiry.” He was trying to pin her to one of the unopened cases to get some kind of control, but she was twisting and struggling and trying to bite him at one point. Sam wanted to take the witch alive, if they ran into her, to make her undo the spell but this one was clearly crazy. The second he could get to his gun, Dean was putting an end to this.

The witch twisted in his grip and actually managed to pop one hand free and plant it on his face before he could shove it off. “Oh, we see!” she cackled. “This one will sleep with our ancestors!”

“Get off me!” Dean twisted her arm away, trying to get both skinny wrists in one hand, but she lunged forward and bit him on the shoulder. He yelped and shoved her back to wrestle his gun free. “All right, fine.” Dead witch it was.

The witch just cackled and waved her hands in the air, muttering a long string of syllables. Dean felt himself lifted off his feet, flying backwards. The world distorted around him for a moment, and for a split second he could have sworn he was staring through a pane of glass before a heavy stone lid slammed over him, sealing him into darkness.

No. No no no...Dean slammed his hands against the stone in front of him, but no matter how hard he hit it just made his wrists ache. No, no this couldn't be happening. The stone was close on all sides, his broad shoulders hunched forward to fit in the narrow space, and even with his knees bent his neck was angled and his head touching the stone above him. No, no, not this.

“Sammy!”

Did he shout? Was his voice echoing back or absorbed by the stone?

Something was in the sarcophagus with him. He could feel it slithering up his legs, his body, wrapping around him to squeeze the air out of his lungs. Was the coffin air-tight? His breath was coming in fast, sharp jerks. The stone around him was unbearably warm, and despite the darkness he was seeing bright flashes of light.

Dean called for his brother, his own voice, broken and distorted, nearly deafening him as he beat and scratched at the heavy stone imprisoning him.

Then, above his own panic, he heard it. Heavy, concussive blasts, distorted by the stone but easy enough to recognize. It had to be Sammy shooting the witch...had to be, his own gun was still in his waistband digging uncomfortably into his back, and the witch was the more claw-and-curse kind.

He renewed his efforts, pounding and digging at the heavy stone trapping him and screaming until his throat was raw.

_Dean! I'm here!_

He froze. Was that real? Was that Sammy's voice or his mind playing tricks on him?

“Sammy!” Dean pounded at the stone again, desperate to get back to his brother. If Sammy was here this wasn't Hell, if Sammy was here this was all in his head, if Sammy was here he could get out but the stone was so close and the space was so hot and something was wrapping around his chest to strangle his breath out....

_Dean!_

Something knocked against the sarcophagus from the outside. From the _outside_.

 _Can you push from the inside? I've got it loose but I can't get it open_.

Can't get it open. Can't get it open. Cantgetitopencantgetitopencantgetitopen....

“Hey, come on.”

The light had changed. Someone had him by the arms, pulling him out of the tight and dark and heat.

“I've got you Dean, it's okay.”

He burrowed into his brother's embrace, chick flick moments be damned, trying to ground himself in the real and free and outside and _Sammy_ and not in the dark.

“Friggin witches, Sammy,” he rasped into his brother's shoulder, voice hoarse from screaming. “I hate 'em.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man. I actually did some planning for the Whumptober 2018 prompts and dude...some of what I came up with is pretty dark. I'm not sure if I should start it up with so many others ongoing right now--might give me motivation to get these finished more quickly if I try to get these done before I start a new one.
> 
> The idea that Dean has some claustrophobia only makes the Ma'lack more horrific *shudder*. And yes, I totally googled the spelling because I'd been spelling it Mallick in my head lol.


	3. Fever (Delirium - Alternate)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions rise and tempers flare when Sam is struck down with an illness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to reviewer Ai, who loved the "Delirium" chapter of Whumptober and wished for more Delirious!Sam and less MotheroftheYear!Mary. 
> 
> It's been forever since I watched season 12, please excuse any awkward characterizations. This would be after Mary left the Men of Letters but before she went to Apocalypse World...somehow?

Dean stopped for a moment to splash some water on his face, his stubble rasping against the towel as he dried himself back off. The kettle was steaming, close to whistling, so he took a swig from the bottle of whiskey before pouring a generous measure into the mug on the counter. Hot water was next, then honey, then lemon juice.

He'd never found any accurate lore that a hot toddy could cure the common cold, but they'd always knocked Sammy out when the kid got sick. And by god (or Chuck or Billie or whatever they were swearing by these days), that kid could use some sleep.

“Dean?”

He sidestepped his mother, who'd appeared like some kind of ministering spirit in an old t-shirt and jeans. “Hang on, gotta get this down the hall while it's hot.”

“I can take care of that.”

It was all too easy to hold the mug out of his mother's reach, despite the stern look she gave him (looked like Sammy came by the bitch-face honestly...though heaven help him if she ever heard him call it that). “I've got it, Mom.”

“Dean, you're exhausted. Let me help you.”

“I'm fine.” He really, honestly, was. It had been years since Sam had gotten sick like this. Not demon blood, not the cage scars, not the trials, not an infected werewolf bite or a drugged beer or even the kind of grief that knocks you flat and leaves you senseless. It was just a cold. But, like all Winchester men, when Sammy got sick...he got _sick_.

“Come on, Sam's my responsibility too.”

Dean bit back an angry answer at that. Sam had _always_ been his responsibility. Since he was old enough to tie his own shoes he'd been tying Sammy's. “I've got this,” he repeated.

Mary snorted and tried to reach the mug he was holding out of the way. “Don't be ridiculous. You've barely slept and your hands are shaking. If you don't take care of yourself you'll end up as sick as Sam.”

“I don't get sick,” Dean countered. He really was too tired for this, but there was an armchair in Sam's room that was just perfect for a quick nap. He'd been crashing there since Sammy got sick, catching catnaps in between caring for the kid. It was a good system, really.

“John always said the same thing, and do you know what happened?” Mom had her hands on her hips, her eyes locked on his with an intensity he wasn't used to seeing outside of a hunt. “He was always the next one down, the next one I had to look after while I was taking care of you and Sam.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “It's just a cold, Mom.”

“Then I can handle it,” she retorted, pulling at the mug again. Dean tried to keep it from her, but she squeezed the pressure point in his wrist until he was forced to open his hand. “There. I'll take this to Sam. You go take a nap in your own bed.”

He tried to protest, but she was already halfway down the hall. With a weary sigh, Dean trudged off to his room—just down the hall from Sam's, of course. He left the door open a crack and stretched out on top of the bed, not even bothering with the blankets. He'd let Mom think he was cooperating, and the second her back was turned he'd be out of here.

Maybe he wasn't being fair, maybe he wasn't giving her mom-credits or whatever...but no one but him every really took care of Sammy.

* * *

Mary slipped into her younger son's room and shut the door with a relieved sigh. Dean was as stubborn as...as...as John had been, sometimes. No, come to think of it...he probably got that stubbornness from her.

But she was still their mother. She could still take care of her sick child.

“Dean?” Sam squinted at her in the soft light of the lamp, half-reclined on a pile of pillows Dean had liberated from other bedrooms.

She smiled softly, sinking down on the edge of the bed. “It's me, sweetie,” she replied, brushing Sam's hair back the way she'd seen Dean do a dozen times. “How are you feeling?”

Sam blinked at her. He rubbed one hand across his face, but she gently pulled it aside when he started digging at his eyes. “Mom?”

“Here, Dean made this for you,” Mary offered. Her mother had always sworn by hot toddies when anyone in the family was sick. Looked like that tradition had been passed on to her own family.

Sam screwed up his face and turned away. “Where's Dean?”

“He's sleeping.” Hesitating, Mary set the mug aside and reached for the washcloth and the basin of water instead. “He was exhausted, sweetie.”

“Sleeping? Is he okay?” Sam tried to sit up, but Mary braced one arm across his chest to keep him down. “Where is he?”

“He's fine, Sam.”

“No, no he's supposed to be here.” Sam was still pushing on her and, to Mary's embarrassment, even when he was nearly out of his mind with fever she was no match for Sam's strength. “Mom, why isn't he here? What's wrong?”

“He's just sleeping,” Mary had to set the basin down and practically rest her entire body across Sam's. “Sam, I promise, there's nothing wrong with Dean. I had to force him to get some rest and let me take care of you, okay?”

Sam seemed to relax at that. “You did?”

Mary heaved a little sigh of relief. “I did. He was worried about you, but I told him I'd take good care of you.”

Her son relaxed a little bit more. “He's okay?”

She felt her temper flare up a little, but forced it back. Her boys had only had each other to depend on for so long, after all. “As soon as your fever goes down you can see him yourself,” she promised. Not like it would be a difficult promise to keep. She probably had all of an hour to have Sam to herself before Dean would reappear.

Sam nestled back into the blankets, muffling a cough into one sleeve. Mary reached for the basin again, gently wiping Sam's forehead and neck with the cool, damp cloth.

There was a book on the nightstand. _To Kill a Mockingbird._ To Mary's bemusement, the pages were marked with a coupon torn off the back of one of those shady porn magazines Dean thought he'd hidden so well. “Want me to read to you?”

Sam seemed to rouse at the question. “It's okay, Mom. Dean's reading to me.”

Again, that flash of temper burned through her for an instant. It was a combination of anger and hurt—she was their mother! Why couldn't they just accept her help?

“I'm sure he can catch up later,” Mary offered, opening to the marked page. “You know, this was one of your father's least-favorite books in high school. He said it ruined reading for him.”

“No, Mom, Dean's reading it.”

“I can read just as well as he can,” Mary insisted. “Where were you?”

“Mom,” Sam started to protest, but another bought of coughing had him doubled over on his bed. Mary abandoned the book to rub his back, her face twisted up in sympathy as her younger son's body jerked and shook with the force of his coughs.

“Can...can we leave it for Dean?”

Sam's voice was so quiet, so broken after coughing for so long that Mary just nodded and made sure the book was back where she'd found it. “I'm just trying to take care of you, Sam.”

“I know,” Sam managed to squeeze her hand (not with the one he'd been coughing into), but he wouldn't quite meet her eyes. “I'd just..can I get some sleep?”

“Of course,” Mary smiled. She helped him sit forward to straighten the pillows, then tucked the blankets up to his chin when he lay back down. “I'll be waiting right here when you wake up.”

Sam offered her an uncertain smile, but rolled on his side away from her and was quiet.

Mary frowned, holding in another sigh. She just wanted a chance to really be their mother...why was it so hard?

* * *

Something snapped Dean awake so fast he was already out of bed and into the hall before he'd really registered he was moving. His feet were already taking him toward Sammy's room when he heard another muffled shout—his mom's voice, maybe—and the sound of something heavy hitting the floor.

Dean shoved the door open and paused for a moment to take in the scene. Sam was half out of bed, blankets twisted around his waist, arms flailing for balance as Mom had him by the wrists and was attempting to lever him back into bed.

“Mom? Mom! I've got him!” Dean shouldered his way in between his mother and brother and grabbed Sam by the upper arms. “Let go, I've got him.”

Sam seemed to react to his voice, collapsing against him with a sound somewhere between a sob and a cough. Dean eased him up onto the bed and tried to straighten the blankets without actually letting go of Sammy. The kid was out of it, babbling something into his neck about mockingbirds and whiskey.

“Here,” Mom was on the other side of the bed, trying to tug the blankets loose. “If you'll hold him up I can straighten these out.”

“I've got him,” Dean argued, even as Mom gave another vicious pull. Sam reacted by trying to cling more tightly to Dean, throwing both of them off-balance until they crashed against the nightstand. Lamp, book, and room-temperature hot toddy crashed to the floor and now Dean had to balance his delirious brother and keep them both out of shards of broken mug.

“Sorry, sorry,” Mary hurried around to their side, righting the lamp and reaching for Sam's shoulder. “I'll help you.”

“Mom! Stop it!” Dean half-twisted Sam away and pulled one hand free long enough to hold it out to stop his mother. “Look, I appreciate what you're doing, but I've. Got. This.”

Mary stepped back, hands on her hips, her face unreadable as Dean finally got Sam back into bed and the blankets in a semblance of order. “Dean.”

“No.” Dean stood up enough to sit on the side of the bed, letting Sam keep hold of one of his arms. “Look...nobody's ever taken care of Sammy but me, okay? It just...it has to be me.”

“I'm his mother...”

“Just stop it!” He was shouting, he knew he was shouting, but it seemed like he couldn't help all the twisted up feelings that came tumbling out. “You can't just pick to be his mom when he's sick, then go back to being Mary when there's a hunt! You never check in, you leave for weeks at a time, but the second he needs someone else you want to be mother of the year? It don't work like that!”

Mary's eyes were bright with tears, but her face seemed twisted in anger. “I have a right to my own life, Dean!”

“Well, I don't!” Dean pulled away from Sam to take a step toward his mother. “You know why? Sammy. I'd give everything up for him. I decided he came first, whatever else I had going on. I don't have a right to my own life, _Mary_ , because his life comes first! Because he's _family_!”

Mom was blinking, tears rolling down her cheeks. Dean deflated a little, sinking back down to sit on the bed. “Mom...”

But she was gone, the door to the room swinging closed behind her. Dean started to follow but Sammy had a hold of his arm again, so he sat back down and let his feverish brother cuddle up closer.

Sammy came first.

* * *

Mary, dashing tears from her eyes, didn't even know where she was headed. How dare he. How dare Dean, her son...how could he say something like that? Like she didn't care for them, just because she was trying to find her own place in this strange, new world?

It wasn't true. Her family did come first. Just sometimes...she just didn't feel like a mom. She wanted to be, _needed_ to be, but they were so grown up and so far beyond her she didn't even know where to start.

“Mary?”

She'd almost walked right into Cas. Mary had forgotten he'd gone into town for supplies, and now he had returned laden down with bags from the super market.

“Oh, hi, Cas.”

“Is everything all right?” Cas was setting the bags down on the table (apparently she'd wandered into the kitchen), and was watching her with an intense expression.

“Dean just...we had a little argument.”

Comprehension flooded Cas's features. “Dean can be intense when Sam is ill or in danger.”

“It's more than that,” Mary shook her head and started pulling items out of the bags. Cas had used the reusable bags Sam liked, she realized. She almost never remembered them, but they hadn't been such a big deal back when the boys were still young. “He just...Cas, am I a bad mother?”

The angel stilled, a jar of spaghetti sauce halfway out of the bag. “Did Dean say that?”

“Not in so many words,” she admitted.

“Dean can be intense when Sam is ill,” Cas said.

“You said that already,” Mary replied. “Cas, please. Just answer. Am I a bad mother?”

Cas settled down into a chair across from her, hands folded on the table, refusing to meet her eyes. “You must understand, Mary, I have never truly had a parent of my own. I cannot make a judgment on your suitability, or lack thereof, as a parent.”

“You must have had someone,” she argued. “A sibling, maybe. A mentor. Someone looking after you and teaching you?”

He was silent for a few long minutes, and Mary remembered the little Dean had told her about heaven. It wasn't the paradise she'd always heard about, and angels weren't all harps and halos. Cas would have been trained since his creation to be a soldier of heaven; a single cog in a great machine. Not exactly a nurturing environment.

“I believe that you act with the purest intentions, but your methods are often flawed.”

Mary jerked back as though she'd been struck. She'd been expecting a criticism, sure. Something along the lines of Dean's angry outburst. Not this dry, matter-of-fact evaluation of her choices. “My methods?” she managed to ask.

“I assume you have been trying to care for Sam in his illness?” Castiel waited until she nodded to continue. “Might I suggest that in focusing on one child you have only isolated the other?”

She stared at him. “You mean...Dean? I made him go to bed, I've tried to get him to eat...Cas, I tried to take care of Dean.”

“Your intentions were pure,” Cas nodded.

“But my methods were flawed?”

“Dean is...” Cas sighed and stood up to continue to put the groceries away. “He takes on many responsibilities.”

“I've noticed.”

“There are times when relieving him of those responsibilities is the best way to care for him. To see all that he does and to shoulder those burdens for him, rather than enforce one's own idea of care.”

Mary considered this for a moment. Her gaze flew to the counter where the ingredients for the hot toddy were still laid out. Maybe...maybe she should have offered to clean up rather than pull the drink out of her son's hands. Maybe she should have let him nap in that armchair and looked after both of them instead of separating them.

Maybe this should be about looking after both of them.

“Thanks, Castiel,” she said, pushing away from the table. “I think I've got a few things to think about.”

* * *

“It's okay, Sammy, it's okay,” Dean gently ran his fingers through his brother's hair. It usually calmed Sam right down, but the younger Winchester was still tossing and turning on the bed. His temperature was too high...it seemed instead of forcing him to drink the hot toddy that would have sent Sam into a dreamless, healing sleep his mom had just sat there while his fever built until he was practically hallucinating.

“D-dean,” Sam gave a huge, rib-creaking cough right into Dean's shoulder, dampening the fabric. “I can't...I can't....”

“Hey, hey, shh,” Dean wrapped one hand around the back of Sam's neck and held him close. “I know, man. I know. We'll pull through this, okay?”

Dean looked around for the water basin he'd left by Sam's bedside, frowning when he spotted it overturned next to the ceramic shards from the broken coffee mug. Sam's fever was skyrocketing, something Mom really should have noticed. He felt that coil of anger again at the thought of her sitting here, hands folded, with the blankets pulled up to Sam's chin to leave his little brother cooking in his own body.

“All right,” Dean swept the rest of the blankets away. “Field trip time, Sammy.” He hooked one arm around his brother's knees and the other behind his shoulders to twist him on the bed until his feet were more or less pointed to the floor.

The movement seemed to rouse Sam a little. “Dean?”

“We've gotta go down the hall, okay?”

Sam whimpered and wrapped his arm around his shoulders as Dean tucked himself into Sam's side. “Dean?”

“Right here, Sammy. We've just gotta take a little walk, okay?”

“Okay.”

Dean gently eased Sam out of the door and down the hall. It seemed like ever since the Trials to close hell the kid just got hit hard whenever he had a fever. He didn't remember Sam having these hard fever spikes before, back in the days when the kid would just bitch and moan and tuck himself into the passenger's seat of the Impala to sleep his fever off.

Luckily, the bathroom wasn't very far down the hall, not much farther than Dean's own room. He clicked the switch, harsh fluorescent lights reflecting off the blue and white tiles. Sammy muttered something and burrowed his head further into Dean's shoulder, away from the light. Dean aimed them for the closest shower stall, stopping only a moment to turn the spray on as cold as it would go before walking them both in, pajamas and all.

And, damn, it was _cold_. Sammy called their water source an artesian well or something, all Dean knew was the water pressure was great but the cold water was _cold_.

Sam yelped and wrapped his moose arms even tighter around Dean, almost over-balancing them in the shower. “Dean?”

“Still here, dude.”

“C-cold.”

“We gotta bring your fever down. Just a couple minutes, okay?”

Sam shuddered but seemed to accept this, though he tried to burrow even closer to his brother. Dean idly ran his hand through Sam's hair, letting the cold water wash away the fever sweat that gave Sam the most magnificent bedhead he'd ever seen.

“D-dean?” This time Sam pulled away, almost steady enough on his feet to stand without help.

“There he is!” Dean offered a beaming smile, shutting the water off to leave them both shivering in the empty bathroom. “How you feeling?”

“Cold,” Sam shivered, wrapping his arms around his chest.

“Well, you were spiking,” Dean replied, resting one hand on Sam's forehead to check his temperature. Sam leaned into his hand and Dean chuckled, pulling it back quickly so that Sam almost stumbled forward. “Still not great, but hey, you're making eye contact again!”

Sam probably would have rolled his eyes, if he'd been feeling better, but instead he hunched into himself and looked down at the floor. “Sorry.”

“Nope. None of that.” Dean took him by the arm and firmly lead him out to the bench that lined one wall of the bathroom. “You know the drill, Sammy. No apologies for being sick.”

“I think I upset Mom,” Sam said quietly. He sank down on the bench and rested his head in his hands. “She was just trying to help.”

Dean bit down his own opinions on how well Mom was helping and just rubbed his brother's back for a second. “She'll understand,” he finally offered. “We all know you turn into a giant bitch when you're sick. Now, can you wait here while I get you some dry clothes?”

Sam tried to bitch-face him, but it failed miserably when he had to stop to cough into his own sleeve and just kind of sank back down in a miserable heap. “Jerk.”

“There's my boy,” Dean ruffled Sam's hair, sticking half of it up straight in the air. He turned when he heard footsteps in the hall, almost expecting Mom to appear again, but felt himself relax a little when Cas leaned into the room.

“Sam? Dean?” Cas stared at them curiously, taking in the state of their soaking wet clothes. “Is everything all right?”

“Perfect timing!” Dean grinned. “Hey, think you can...”

Before he could finish his question, Cas had strode across the room and placed two fingers to each of their foreheads. There was a rustle of wind, and in a moment they were dry...though decided rumpled.

“Thanks, man,” Dean smiled up at his friend tiredly. “Think you can help me get the sasquatch back to bed?”

“Not a sasquatch, Dean,” Sam protested, though his face was muffled in his hands.

“I changed the bedding as well,” Cas said, helping Dean lever Sam up to his feet. It was certainly easier with a second person, especially one almost as tall as the brothers. “Dean, the groceries you requested are in the kitchen.”

“Awesome,” Dean hugged the arm around Sam a little tighter as his brother stumbled. “You're the best Cas.”

Their progression down the hall was silent, but Dean could tell there was something on Cas's mind. He was about to ask what was wrong when the angel spoke up.

“I spoke with your mother.”

Oh. That. “Yeah. I think I owe her an apology.”

“You owe that to each other,” Cas countered as they entered Sam room. True to the angel's word, the sweaty linens had been stripped from the bed to be replaced with clean, fresh ones. He'd even taken care of the broken mug on the floor, and _To Kill a Mockingbird_ was back in its place of honor on the nightstand. “But that can wait until Sam is taken care of.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighed. Sam sat down on the bed, scrubbing his hands through his crazy hair. “Hey, Cas, think you can help him change? I wanna get out of these,” he added, tugging at his own rumpled t-shirt.

“Of course. We will await your return.”

“Thanks, man.” Dean patted Cas and Sam on the shoulders before trudging down to his room for clean clothes. He eyed his bed longingly, but a catnap in Sam's chair would have to be enough for now. Besides, the kid would probably pass out the second they got him back under the blankets.

When he reached Sam's door again, Mary was on the way in with a steaming mug in one hand and a laptop under the other arm. She offered a hesitant smile and held the mug out to him. “I think you have a better chance of getting Sam to drink this.”

He took it, a rush of guilt and affection making him duck his head. “Mom, I...”

“Later,” Mom gently took his free hand. “I brought one of the computers, wanna help me find what Sam likes to watch when he's sick?”

He smiled gratefully and followed her into the room. “That sounds perfect.”

They could work it out later.

Family came first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dude. You have no idea. My ex-mother-in-law is named Mary. This chapter gave me literal nightmares
> 
> Speaking of!
> 
> Mediation finally went through on the 6th. After eight long months of fighting to get to this point I am now in the purgatory of divorce paperwork filing. But! It is purgatory because there's an exit somewhere! Hopefully I'll be able to post more frequently now.
> 
> Next time: Dehydration (Abandoned)


End file.
